Loki Laufeyson Oneshots and Imagines

caged (oneshot)

A/N: hey beautiful people, this is a oneshot i found in my drafts, but i'm thinking about making a part 2 because it kind of leaves off on a cliffhanger. anyways, thanks for reading please take care of yourself <3

***

Time was difficult here, but you were quite certain it was after midnight.

The crowd's boisterous roar had trickled down to the occasional drunken yell, and the Grandmaster's prized warrior had long been sedated, sleeping triumphantly after a day of being challenged by the never-ending supply of cocky warriors. It had been exactly one hundred and ninety days since the last prized champion had been beaten, a bloody battle in which a fairly drunk bulk of a man caught his beastly opponent on an off day and managed to find a chink in his armor by merely slipping in his own blood. When you heard of this news, you had to laugh, knowing that this new klutz of a champion would not last.

The next day he ended up dead, slit at the throat with his own knife.

See, the Grandmaster doesn't like to lose. It's why he picks challengers that are usually not human, some sort of mutant creature he bought from illegal traders that occasionally visit Sakaar, knowing that any man brave enough to fight it would lose. In rare cases where the prized warrior is defeated, the Grandmaster takes it upon himself to kill him off. No one thinks much of this. Most people who spectate the matches are drunk, though there are the certain few that go for the thrill of bloodshed, which the Grandmaster himself seems to share.

Perhaps you do too.

The gashes on your knuckles are an angry red, the bruises on your legs and arms a vengeful purple. Every day, every night, no rest. No time to rest. You punch the cinderblock wall smeared with red and feel another jolt through your knuckles but it doesn't stop you. Another kick to the handmade dummy in the corner. You snatch a sword from the ground, its handle imprinted with the mold of your grip, and slash at the dummy's head. Then you grab the knife in your belt and throw it to the other side of the room. The chalk you used to draw the target on the wall has long been faded, but the bullseye you memorized. The knife sticks into the wall, and the wall finally, finally, cracks. A small fissure in the walls of this prison. A change.

It's time.

Finally, after ten godforsaken years, it's time.

The Grandmaster shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The condensation on his cheery yellow drink made his hands slippery, and he nimbly set it down. The buzz of the crowd wasn't as high tonight. It made him uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. Here, in this place, his job is to provide the people with a good time. He threw parties to keep people happy. He ordered his servants to make food that no one had ever tasted. He hosted gladiator battles that he believed were very entertaining, though the large population of drunken people in the crowd sort of disproved that. He was happy here because he had everything he ever wanted.

An icy bead of sweat slipped down his neck like the condensation on his glass.

Something that would disturb the peace was lurking here. Something uncomfortable. He stood up, leaving his Sanguine Sorbet Surprise behind.

The attendees praised him as he walked by; he shook grey alien hands and claws and a few human hands too. A large fellow with skin made of rocks clapped him on the back so hard that he nearly fell over. But everyone had smiles on their faces, so he put one on too.

Dear lord, where is he?

Something was stirring in this place, and it frightened him. Something was going to happen. He was surprised no one else could feel the edge of discomfort pulsing in the air.